MISS VANBERG IS MALICIOUS.
Rupert Godwin left Clara Westford with rage and vengeance burning in
his breast. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” says the poet;
but the mind of a bad man who finds himself despised by the woman he
loves is the habitation of that devil whose name is legion. There was
no vengeance too base, too cruel, for the banker. He determined to
heap the bitterest of all earthly sufferings upon the woman who had
defied him.
He laughed aloud as he thought of the widow’s weakness.
Poverty-stricken, friendless--what could she do in the strife with
him, who had wealth and power on his side?
Rupert Godwin had been an infidel from his very boyhood. His
philosophy was of the Garden, and not of the Porch. In his creed
a man had but one duty, and that was allegiance to himself. For
himself and for his own pleasure he had lived, and now that the
passions of youth had been sated by the pleasures of youth, a darker
and more stormy passion held the mastery of his mind. That passion
was revenge. His offended pride, his baffled love, his outraged
self-esteem, alike demanded the humiliation of Clara Westford.
From the Waterloo-road he went straight to a West-end club, where he
had promised to meet the young Marquis.
He had pledged himself to introduce Lord Roxleydale to Violet
Westford. But he had only done this in order that he might gain time
to mature his schemes. If Clara had yielded to the temptation of his
wealth, or the fear of his power, he would then have protected Violet
from the Marquis.
But Clara had defied him, and he was now determined on a course which
must result in unspeakable misery for her.
He found Lord Roxleydale waiting for him in the smoking-room of the
club. The apartment was almost deserted at this hour, and the young
Marquis had no better amusement than to lounge in one of the windows,
puffing laboriously at a gigantic regalia, with the air of a man who
has sworn to smoke himself into a galloping consumption within a
given period.
For once in a way he had contrived to escape from the society of his
hanger-on and flatterer, Mr. Sempronius Sykemore; but he had only
done this at the cost of a fifty-pound note, which he had lent to the
needy Sempronius, who was always tormented by a kind of demon avenger
in the shape of a “little bill,” which required to be taken up with
money borrowed from Mr. Sykemore’s wealthy friends. “I should paste
a bit of calico behind that ‘little’ bill of yours, if I were you,
Sykemore,” remarked one of his victims. “It has been taken up so
many times that I am sure it can’t hold together much longer.”
“Well, Godwin!” exclaimed Lord Roxleydale, turning eagerly to meet
the banker; “have you managed that business? Have you seen her, and
have you arranged matters for my introduction to her?”
“Unluckily, no, my dear boy,” Mr. Godwin answered coolly. “I have
not forgotten you, but I find that I have made a slight mistake. I
have been making inquiries at the theatre this morning, and I have
discovered that Miss Watson, the girl who plays the Queen of Beauty,
is not the person I fancied.”
“Then you can’t introduce me to her?”
“Unhappily, my dear boy, I have not that privilege. But I am a man of
the world, and I think I can give you a few useful hints as to the
best way of getting an introduction.”
Lord Roxleydale shrugged his shoulders with an impatient gesture.
“Sempronius could do as much as that,” he said.
“Sempronius is a cad,” answered the banker, “who ought not to be
trusted with any business requiring the smallest amount of tact. He’s
a very good sort of person to send on a message to your tailor, or to
get you long odds from the bookmen when you want to back anything.
He may be useful to us by-and-by; but for the present we are better
off without him. Do you know that girl--that handsome Jewish-looking
girl? Miss Vanberg, I think you called her.”
“Yes, I know her.”
“She is the person to be of use to us. She will be able to tell us
all about this Miss Watson. Suppose you were to call upon her, taking
me with you?”
“It seems rather a roundabout way of doing business,” the Marquis
said contemptuously; “but I’m agreeable. My phaeton is waiting. I can
drive you to Miss Vanberg’s at once, if you like.”
“I am ready,” answered the banker. “I want to see this Miss Vanberg.”
He spoke carelessly, but in his face there was a lurking expression
in which a physiognomist might have perceived an almost feverish
anxiety.
But the Marquis was by no means skilled in reading either the faces
or the minds of men. He had gone through the usual curriculum at Eton
and Oxford, and had done the usual Continental tour with a tutor
whose life he endangered at every available opportunity by upsetting
him on the highways and byways of Europe out of divers vehicles,
and had evinced altogether an exceptional capacity for remaining in
a state of primitive ignorance. His career at the University had
awakened him to the comprehension of the fact that those Latin
fellows who wrote stupid histories about each other’s wars and that
kind of thing were a confounded bore, and the Greek fellows a still
more confounded bore; that getting up early in the morning was
humbug; and that wine-parties were slow, because fellows had got
so doosid sober and so doosid intellectual, that they were always
chopping damm’ logic and talking damm’ crack-jaw stuff about Homer
and Æschylus and that kind of thing, instead of enjoying themselves
like gentlemen.
This was Hector Augustus Front d’Airain, Baron of Hursley in
Staffordshire, Marquis of Roxleydale in Scotland,--a fair-haired,
yellow-whiskered, baby-faced young gentleman, with the morals of a
Rochester and the intellect of a Master Slender. He was the very last
of men whom Rupert Godwin would have chosen for a companion from any
but mercenary motives.
The two men drove straight to Miss Vanberg’s house, which was a
_bijou_ mansion in Bolton-row. It was between four and five o’clock
in the afternoon by this time, and the young lady was at home.
A man-servant ushered the two gentlemen up the richly-decorated
staircase, where nymphs and satyrs in Florentine bronze smirked
and capered in the recesses of the pale grey wall, relieved by
mouldings and medallions in unburnished gold. Everything in the
elegantly-appointed house betokened the presence of wealth. The Duke
of Harlingford’s purse had to pay very largely for the caprices of
the lovely Jewess, who honoured him by spending his money.
The afternoon’s sun was shining between the leaves of the tropical
flowers that shaded the open window of Miss Vanberg’s drawing-room.
Near this window the Jewess was half-seated, half-reclining on a low
luxurious sofa covered with amber satin.
Esther Vanberg wore a clear white muslin dress, high to the throat,
and fastened round her waist by a broad crimson sash tied in a loose
knot. A crimson ribbon secured the rich masses of her purple-black
hair.
Her slender figure was half-buried in the amber satin pillows of the
sofa, whose brilliant hue contrasted marvellously with her dark hair
and flashing black eyes.
Seated thus, Esther Vanberg might have been a worthy study for any
living painter.
But in the broad summer sunlight the havoc which her reckless life
and evil temper had wrought in her constitution was only too plainly
visible.
Rupert Godwin saw the feverish light in her eyes, the hectic flush
upon her cheek; and he knew that the beautiful Jewess was doomed to
make a speedy finish to her reckless career.
She half rose as the two gentlemen entered the room.
“Pray don’t disturb yourself, Miss Vanberg,” said the Marquis; “I’ve
only dropped in for a few minutes’ chat, with my friend here, Mr.
Godwin, the great banker. You must have heard of Godwin’s bank, eh?
That’s quite in your style, you know. You’ve got quite a genius for
getting rid of money, you know, and that kind of thing. You’re not
looking very well this afternoon. You’re tired, I daresay. Long
rehearsal, and so on. Fatiguing life, I should think, the drama, eh?”
“Very fatiguing,” answered the Jewess, shrugging her shoulders
contemptuously, “especially when one’s ambition is blighted by the
senseless stupidity of one’s employers. I want to be an actress, not
a ballet-girl; but Mr. Maltravers will not allow me to open my lips;
and yet he has picked up some girl in the streets whom he has chosen
to place in the most conspicuous position in the great scene of our
new burlesque.”
“You mean Miss Watson,” exclaimed the Marquis. “Well, I don’t wonder
Maltravers was knocked over when he saw her: she’s the loveliest
creature I ever beheld.”
Esther Vanberg looked at the young nobleman with a frown which was
almost too much for the young man’s nerves. Rupert Godwin gave him a
warning glance at the same moment; and, dull as Lord Roxleydale was,
he saw that he had been imprudent in the undisguised utterance of his
admiration.
“If you call that insipid flaxen-haired doll a beauty, you must be as
stupid as Maltravers himself,” said the Jewess unceremoniously.
Mr. Godwin took this opportunity of striking in.
“Well, for my part, I think she’s a pretty girl, in a very insipid
style, as you say, Miss Vanberg, and by no means my style of beauty.
I like something flashing, queen-like, Oriental--the Cleopatra type
of loveliness.”
He looked at the Jewess as he spoke, and it was evident that her
offended vanity was somewhat appeased by the compliment implied in
his words.
“However,” continued the banker, “insipid as the young lady is, a
friend of ours, a certain Mr. Sempronius Sykemore, a tuft-hunter and
vulgarian, has chosen to fall desperately in love with her. He is
pining for an introduction, and is ready to carry her off and make
her Mrs. Sempronius Sykemore at the shortest notice, if she will
accept him for a husband.”
“He is rich, I suppose?” inquired Esther.
“Not he. The fellow is a low-born adventurer, without a sixpence in
the world, beyond what he contrives to borrow from some obliging
friend.”
“He is young, handsome, perhaps?” suggested Esther.
“Neither. He is five-and-forty at the least, wears the most obvious
of wigs, and is strongly suspected of being guilty of false teeth.”
Esther Vanberg’s face lighted up with a gracious smile.
“And he wants to marry Miss Watson, the stage-manager’s favourite,
the Queen of Beauty?”
“He does.”
“And if she refuses to marry him?”
“Well, my dear Miss Vanberg,” answered the banker, “that’s the
very thing the Marquis and I have been thinking of; and we want to
concoct a little plot--a pleasant little practical joke, you know,
by which we may have some innocent fun ourselves, and secure our
dear Sempronius a pretty wife. Now, unfortunately, Sykemore is so
confoundedly vulgar and ugly, and fat and conceited, that if he
were to ask Miss Watson to marry him she’d be sure to say No. So in
this case we want to plan an elopement. We shall try and arrange
some little _ruse_, by which Miss Watson will be lured into a
travelling carriage; post-horses will be ready on the road, and our
friend Sykemore shall carry the young lady off to a lonely place
in Essex, belonging to our friend Lord Roxleydale. Once there, the
Queen of Beauty, who is a very prudish, stuck-up young person, as I
understand, will feel that her reputation is compromised. Sempronius
will be ready with a special licence and a parson, the knot will
be tied, and Miss Watson will disappear into domestic life as Mrs.
Sykemore, and will thus leave the stage of the Circenses clear for
one infinitely more calculated to charm the public than her most
insipid self.”
The Marquis of Roxleydale sat open-mouthed, listening to this speech.
He felt that some subtle plot was being concocted, but he was just
clever enough to know that he was stupid, and he trusted himself
entirely in the hands of his friend and adviser--the man of the world.
To Esther Vanberg there was a terrible temptation in the proposition
made by the banker.
She hated Violet Westford; hated her alike for her superior beauty,
the favour that had been shown her by Mr. Maltravers, and the
admiration that had been lavished on her by the press and the public.
It had been whispered in the theatre that Violet would be permitted
to play some small part in a new piece that was about to be produced,
in order that the audience might see more of her fresh young beauty.
This was a terrible mortification to the haughty girl, who so
earnestly aspired to be an actress, and who had never been allowed to
open her lips on the stage of the Circenses.
For these reasons Esther Vanberg hated Violet. She hated her also
because of the girl’s quiet dignity, that calm and placid demeanour
which resisted insult more completely than any violence of temper
could have done.
Thus it was that Esther Vanberg was tempted to join in a plot which
might remove Violet from her path, and the success of which would
humiliate her unconscious rival by uniting her to an unworthy husband.
The temptation was a powerful one, and Esther had never been
accustomed to withstand temptation.
“What do you want me to do in order to assist your scheme?” she
asked, after an interval of thought.
“We only want you to introduce us to Miss Watson in such a manner as
to throw her off her guard. The Marquis can get admittance to the
green-room of the theatre for himself and any of his friends.”
“Miss Watson is an ill-bred insolent creature,” exclaimed Esther
impatiently, “and she and I are scarcely on speaking terms. However,
if you will wait till Monday night I’ll try and arrange matters in
the mean time. I must be on tolerably friendly terms with this girl
before I can introduce you to her.”
“To be sure,” answered the banker. “Monday night will do very well
indeed.”
The Marquis of Roxleydale looked crestfallen. His weak mind was
entirely filled with the image of Violet, and he could not bear the
thought of delay. He was eager to see her, to give utterance to his
admiration--his worship. Left to himself, his love might have been a
generous affection: as it was, that love would speedily degenerate
into the base passion of a profligate, for he was under the influence
of a man of the world.
“I should have liked to see--I mean, I should have liked Sempronius
to see her to-night,” he said; “Monday seems such a doosid long time
to wait.”
Esther Vanberg shrugged her shoulders with the disdainful gesture
that was peculiar to her.
“It can’t possibly be managed before Monday,” she said; “and as it
is, it will give me a great deal of trouble.”
“For which you shall be recompensed, my dear Miss Vanberg,” answered
the Marquis eagerly; “if the handsomest diamond bracelet to be bought
at Harry Emanuel’s will content you.”
Esther smiled. Revenge was sweet, but precious gems were also very
dear to the heart of the ballet-girl. Rupert Godwin watched her
keenly, and with a strange shadow of melancholy overspreading his
countenance.
There was something very horrible in the idea of this girl, with
the doom of death stamped upon her face, but with her mind entirely
absorbed by schemes of vengeance and greed of gain.
“Who is she, and whence does she come?” thought the banker. “There is
a strange coincidence in the likeness she bears to the dead. And then
that talk of the ancient Jews of Andalusia. Strange!--strange!”
Rupert Godwin roused himself by an effort from the reverie into which
he had fallen, and rose to take his leave of Miss Vanberg.
After some further discussion, a meeting in the green-room of the
Circenses was arranged for the following Monday evening. Lord
Roxleydale was hand-and-glove with the manager of the theatre, and
his influence was sufficiently powerful to procure the admission of
his friend.
The two gentlemen left Miss Vanberg’s elegant little domicile and
drove back to the club, where the banker was to dine _tête-à-tête_
with the Marquis. Of late Rupert Godwin had occupied a _pied-à-terre_
in St. James’s, preferring to live anywhere rather than at Wilmingdon
Hall, though Julia complained bitterly of his desertion.
“Now, Godwin,” exclaimed the Marquis, when the two men were seated
opposite to each other at the glittering little dinner-table in the
club-room, “tell me why you introduced Sempronius into this business.”
“As a tool, my dear Marquis; and a very convenient one,” answered
the banker. “Couldn’t you see through that girl Vanberg’s jealousy?
She is envious of the other girl’s superior beauty. If she knew that
you admired Miss Watson, she would do all in her power to baulk your
schemes; for she would be afraid of helping her rival to become a
Marchioness. But, on the other hand, she will cordially assist in
a plot that will unite the girl she hates to a vulgar penniless
husband.”
“I see. You’re a clever fellow, upon my word, Godwin. So far, so
good. And how about the rest of your plot?”
“Nothing can be more simple. You have a place in Essex, called the
Moat?”
“I have.”
“What sort of a place is it?”
“Well, I think It’s about the loneliest and dreariest old dungeon in
the civilized world.”
“Have you many servants there?”
“No; only two poor old creatures, who wither away among the cobwebs
and mildew of the place. They are a superannuated coachman and his
wife, who served my father, and were pensioned by him. They are both
of them as deaf as posts, and as blind as beetles.”
“Nothing could be better--unless, indeed, they had been dumb into the
bargain,” answered Rupert Godwin, with a grim smile. “The very people
of all people; the very place of all places. I have my little schemes
all prepared, and before midnight on Monday, Vio--Miss Watson, the
Queen of Beauty, will be in a travelling carriage behind four horses
on her road to the Moat.”
“With Sempronius Sykemore?”
“No, my dear Roxleydale; with you.”